


Epic of Enkidu

by SpiritofaRose



Category: Fate/Zero, The Epic of Gilgamesh
Genre: #Godsareannoying, #Humansareweird, Epic, F/M, Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 19:22:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11019921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritofaRose/pseuds/SpiritofaRose
Summary: The story of Enkidu, from her childhood memories to meeting her first and only friend. Genderbend. Mostly OC main character. Based loosely off the original epic and parts of the Fate series. Rated T for later chapters. Warning: Rating may change.





	1. Memories

I do not remember being born. But then, I suppose very few of the humans do.

My first memory is of the bright blue sky stretching endlessly over the earth, the sound of the wind rushing through the trees and the gentle sway of the leafy branches overhead.

My second memory is of shadows, and hunger and thirst. Then there was light, and warmth.

It must have been during the harvest season, because the air is warm in my memories, but there was warmth at my back, too, and I remember the feeling of silky fur curled around my bare skin, the soft snort of the wolf as she nuzzled one of the squirming, mewling pups closer to herself.

Aside from that, I do not remember much of my earlier years. Time has little meaning when days stretch on without end and the world is always the same. The wolf was my only existence, her and the wriggling, naked pups beside me. There were other things -the shadow of the rock over the den, the thick, sweet smell of the earth all around me and the light that was always followed by darkness- but they were like the sun and moon, distant and unchangeable. The wolf was my entire world. She fed me when I mewled with hunger, pressed me close to her warm sides when it grew cold, and carried me back inside the den by the scruff of her neck, as she did her pups, whenever we managed to squirm too close to the outside world.

As I grew older, things began to change. The den grew smaller as I grew taller, though admittedly not much bigger, and could move my fingers and toes -paws, as I thought of them then- more easily as I wished. The pups, too, grew bigger and stronger, but their changes were different. Their claws and teeth grew sharper than mine, and warm fur covered them. I, on the other hand, only grew fur on my head, and my claws never did grow much, although my teeth did become a little sharper. The wolf -I had no concept of 'mother', but if I had a word then for how I thought of her, that would have been it- would sometimes roll me onto my stomach and nuzzle me all over, searching for my fur. She never seemed content with what little she found on my head, poking me with her cold wet nose until I curled into a ball and squirmed away from her restraining paws, as puzzled as any mother over the smallest of the litter.

I was strong for my small size, however. The pups and I spent many happy hours tussling, snarling and snapping at each other with dew claws and teeth still meant more for milk than meat, and even though my fur and teeth and claws were smallest, I could still pin down the biggest of the pups and force him to submit to me.

(Gilgamesh will sometimes trace the scars I have from those mock battles, and shake his head and tell me that it is a good thing that he tamed me before I went wild completely. And, as always, I tell him that last I recall, it was I who tamed him. But I get ahead of myself.)

Gradually, the wolf left more and more. She would let us follow her on the shorter hunting trips, and I learned how to stalk prey, how to detect the weakest of the herd and wait, hidden, for it to fall behind before attacking, circling and snapping with heavy jaws and fangs until at last, wounded and exhausted, the prey would collapse and we could feast.

Since my claws were still blunt and I had no fangs to speak of, I rarely took part in the hunt itself. I would watch, crouched in the underbrush, as the pups gleefully darted out to attack, led on by the wolf, wishing I could be one with the pack as the others were.

That growing sense of loneliness marked my earliest years. I do not remember when I finally left the pack, but it was soon after the pups were nearly full grown, when we had left the shelter of the den for the open woods. I do remember waking up alone afterwards, curled up shivering beneath a tree and missing the warmth of the pack around me. I must have been nearly five summers then, as the humans count it.

It was the smell of freshly killed meat that finally led me out from the forest. I followed the smell to the outskirts of the trees, to the river that snaked its way through the stone cliffs. There I found a grizzly bear and her two cubs feasting upon fish in the shallows.

The bear looked up as I came closer, walking unsteadily in the treacherous sand. The cubs, who had not yet learned that the world held things to fear, continued to eat. I do not doubt that I was a pitiful sight, a small, naked creature that smelled of wolves, drawn by the scent of fish, which my stomach told me loudly smelled very good. I had not eaten since I left the pack, and I was tired and hungry and lonely.

When I was only a few feet away, the bear heaved herself to her feet and ambled over. I froze, looking up wide-eyed as her shadow blocked the sun. She stretched out her thick neck and sniffed me curiously. She did not particularly seem to like the wolf stench, because she grunted and drew back her furry lips. The sight of those enormous white fangs, each as nearly as long as my face, is still clear in my mind. I stayed very still as she snuffled me all over, nearly knocking me over, and grunted again and drew back. I looked up into her deep brown eyes, unafraid. I was not afraid of other creatures then, only of being alone.

Something seemed to pass between her and I, a kind of understanding. Animals do not have a single spoken language, as humans do. Their language consists of a thousand different sounds and gestures, and it is as simple as that of the smallest human child's and more complex than any language spoken by humans. I knew that she sensed my loneliness and hunger, and something about me seemed to waken a sort of dormant emotion in her, as she did in me. With a snort, she gave me a nudge that sent me sprawling flat on my face in the mud of the riverbank. The cubs paused in their meal to sniff me curiously, their black button eyes wide with surprise, but I now smelled distinctly of bear saliva and was so covered in mud that I was almost as dark as they were. They blinked at me, and I sniffed them back, and together we devoured what was left of the fish while the bear watched over us warily.

(Gilgamesh says that it was the mark that the gods had put on me when they created me that made all the creatures I encountered mistake me for one of their own. He says it so certainly that I do not argue, since he, too, knows what it is like to be under the gods' protection. But in my heart I cannot help but feel that the gods did not have much hand in my childhood. There was someone in the wolf's dark eyes, and in the bear's as she accepted me as one of her own cubs, that makes me believe it was more than a simple mark. Both the wolf and the bear saw clearly that I was not the same as them, and they still accepted me. That is not something that the gods, or even humans for that matter, have ever been very good at.)

I lived with the bear and her cubs for three summers. There were no hunts to watch alone from the shadows now, no mock fights that left me curled up in the corner of the den, licking my new cuts and scrapes. The bear and her cubs lived in a shallow cave at the foot of the cliffs, and at night I would happily snuggle against her furry side. During the day I learned how to fish, how to root out grubs and squirming ants from the deep crevices of rotting stumps. When the day grew hot I would splash about in the shallows with the cubs, leaping over each other and wrestling, sheathed paws against fingers and toes and furry limbs against thin, naked ones. I still won most of the fights, but every so often I would roll onto my back and let them tackle me and knock the air from my lungs, just for the pleasure of watching them strut around proudly before they fell to fighting again.

After that, when the cubs were grown, I lived with the gazelles. There I learned how to fly across the grassy plains faster than the wind himself, where to find the best watering-holes and how to spot a predator in the tall grass. I watched the males rut in the spring, clashing fiercely and stamping and swinging their horns while a female watched nearby, and looked after the littlest ones as they took their first trembling steps. I guarded the herd at watering-holes, and used the knowledge of how the pack hunts to shield my new family from predators. I bore the hunter no more ill will than I did the hunted, and harmed nothing when it was within my power to keep from doing so. I was very strong by then, so I could usually overpower whatever I encountered.

It was around then that I first began to put into words, or at least what passed for words in the strange, rambling language I used for myself, what I had always unconsciously recognized. I had known that I was different even when I lived with the wolves -how could I not, when I changed even as they did, and yet always remained different? But now for the first time I began to wonder what I was, if I was like nothing I had ever met before.

I was still too young to wish for a mate -that aspect of my existence would not come for years, even when I eventually lived among humans- but it seemed that every other creature under the sun or moon had others of its kind, and I did not. I gradually became aware of a new kind of loneliness, for even though I was surrounded by creatures of every kind and shake and happier than I had ever been, I still felt more alone than ever.

(Gilgamesh wishes for me to add that the concept of a mate was alien to me until I met him. I would also add that when I first met him, nothing was farther from my mind. It was only when the loneliness was replaced with -but no, for even then I never once that thought of myself in that way. It was only when he -but again I get ahead of myself. Telling this clearly is more difficult than I thought.

Gilgamesh says that I should skip to the interesting parts, by which he means the parts that have him as well. I tell him that in that case I should never bother with putting all of this down at all, and that if he wants to hear my story he must listen to all of it, not just the parts with him in it.

He says that I should at least finish my sentence from before. I tell him that he was the one who asked me to do this in the first place, and that I cannot write with him interrupting constantly, and if he wishes for me to stop then I am more than happy to do so.

He is quiet now, though not for long, I have no doubt. To continue where I left off-)

It was a different kind of loneliness than I was used to. Before, a part of me had always believed that even if I never found anything like myself -and I always knew, deep in my bones, that I was strange and different, and I never truly believed that I would find someone like that- I still thought that I would someday meet something that fitted where I was lacking, like a piece I had not known was missing. But as time went on, and I traveled the great plains and forest and never met any such thing, that fragile hope I had cherished slowly flickered and died.

(Don't look so offended, Gilgamesh. This was before I met you, remember?)

There are two things I forgot to mention, however. The first is that I have always known my name to be Enkidu, though whether that was the name the gods pressed into my mind when they created me, and is as much a part of me as the bones inside my flesh or the heart beating inside my chest, or simply the first string of sounds that seemed to have meaning when I began to use the strange, nonsensical language I created for myself, I do not know. Enkidu was who I was, the pattern of sounds that summed up my entire existence.

The second is the dreams. I have always had them, or at least for as long as I can remember. Sometimes it is only a meaningless babble of voices, like the crashing of a waterfall, loud and chaotic and beautiful and terrible at the same time. Other times, it is only one voice, a woman's, though she speaks the same garbled language as I once did, and I could never tell whether she and I were one and the same or not. More dreams, different ones, came later, but during those days when I knew nothing of humans it was that woman's voice that came to me over and over again, singing of Enkidu, created by the gods from clay to avenge against evil and to protect the weak, to find her destiny with the one who lives in the stone.

I didn't know what gods were then, of course. I simply knew that I had been created by someone for something, and that meant I was different. It meant I was alone.

Around the same time as I was living with the gazelles, I began to notice changes in my appearance. The herd would gather at a watering-hole, and I would linger behind to peer at my reflection in the murky water after they had gone and the ripples had stilled. I would compare what I saw to the creatures I knew, searching for some feature, some visible mark connecting me to one of them.

I saw none. The reflection I saw, when the water was clearest, resembled no creature I had ever seen. My face had somewhat of a faint resemblance to the high, curved cheekbones of the antelope, but even to my hopeful imagination the similarity ended there. My skin was the color of the sand in the plains, a few shades darker than ivory. What fur I had could scarcely be called such, for it did little to keep me warm and even less to protect me from the changing weather, other than that between my legs and on my head, but even that was like no fur I'd ever seen. The fur that grew on my head was long and pale like the sky at moonset and thick as wolf fur, but with a sort of ripple in it, and the tips curled when they were damp. My muzzle and my mouth were separate, something that confused me to no end, and my muzzle was very small. I had lips like a bear, but mine were thicker and the reddish color of wild grapes, which made no sense at all. My eyes were the bronze of the glittering flecks of gold that glinted in the rocks of the riverbed, and large, but lacking the roundness of the other creatures', and arched wisps of pale fur grew over them.

I could move about on all fours like the wolves, but my movements were more cumbersome than when I stood on my hind legs like a bear, so generally I preferred the latter. I was a little larger than a wolf, but my head and shoulders were far thinner, and my torso did not grow steadily narrower as theirs did, but thinned in the middle before widening again at the hips. My arms and legs were thicker than a gazelle's, but not as big as a bear's, and yet I was still stronger than the largest bear. I was also developing strange lumps on my chest at the time, which seemed to have no purpose whatsoever and puzzled me to no end.

(Stop laughing, Gilgamesh! How was I supposed to know what a human female looked like?)

I do not know my exact age at this point, but I would guess it to be around ten summers, perhaps a little more. I no longer lived with any one kind of creature, but spent those long years -though looking back, how fleeting they seem now! - traversing what I thought of as my domain. Some nights I would spend with the pack, tending the pups while the adults hunted, or roam with the jackals though the underbrush in the never-ending search for a meal. Other days I would grub for insects with the bears, or fly across the open plains with the antelopes and gazelles, relishing the wind in my fur and the feel of the ground vanishing beneath my feet. The loneliness remained, a dull ache in my chest at times, but for the most part I was happy, and I was content.

I did not know it then, but those peaceful days would soon be over, and a new chapter in my life would begin.

But that is a story for later, when I have rested and eaten and eased the cramps out of my writing hand.


	2. The Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dreams warn of change.

It was my twelfth summer when I first met humans.  
It was near the end of the harvest time, for the tall grasses on the plain had turned brown, their golden tips fading. The long hot days were growing cooler again. It had been a hard summer. The rains had not come as often, and food was scarce. The wolf pack I was denning with was growing restless. I had been with them for some moons already, and I could tell that the lack of food was beginning to take its toll. The herds had already moved farther across the plains, chasing the drying water-holes, and what prey was left in the forest was not enough to feed a starving wolf pack. Soon they would abandon the forest altogether and follow the herds west towards the setting sun, and I would have to choose between joining them or staying behind.  
I didn’t want to leave. The forest had always been my home, overshadowing me even on the plains. But the other wolf packs had already been chased out, and the bears and the other creatures I knew best were preparing to den for the dry season ahead. I could not sleep away the seasons, and I did not want to be left alone again. The memories of when I left my first pack still haunted me. I ran from the loneliness like the wolves ran from their hunger, trying to escape that which I could not defeat. In all of the world that I knew then, that loneliness was the only thing I truly feared.  
(I am looking at Gilgamesh as I write this. He is quiet now, gazing out over the city as he waits for me to continue, but his expression has lost its usual arrogance. It is a look I know well. I’ve seen it before in the reflection of the watering-holes. The loneliness, the yearning for someone like me. It is strange, seeing it on his face. I’m so used to his unshakeable confidence that sometimes I forget that he, too, understands loneliness better than anyone.  
And as I write this, he has caught me looking and given me his usual arrogant smirk. I do not like it when he does that, even if he is merely uncomfortable at being caught with such an expression, and I will make sure he knows it, once I have finished with this for today. But back to my story-)  
The memories of those days are clearer, so I will simply tell them as I remember them, the way that wild creature who roamed the forests and plains and did not yet know the way of humans or even what she herself was, remembers them.  
The change began with the dream.  
The voice whispered to me. It sang my name, murmuring it like the sound of the wind or the beating of my own heart. “Enkidu,” it called.  
I opened my eyes. I was no longer curled up in the den with the pack. It was night, and I was standing amidst the stars. They shone brilliantly, blotting out the shadows, and as the voice spoke the light itself seemed to give it shape. “Enkidu…”  
“Here I am,” I said. The song rose, weaving among the stars. “Enkidu,” it sang. “Why are you afraid?”  
“I am not afraid,” I said. The stars dimmed. “Enkidu,” it murmured again with a trace of sorrow, “Why are you afraid?”  
Cool air brushed my cheek, soft as wolves’ fur. I looked down. Here in the heavens there was no earth below, only endless darkness. “I am not afraid,” I say stubbornly. “But…I do not wish to be alone again.”  
The stars flickered. Suddenly I was a pup again, curled up under a tree, shivering and missing my pack. The voice echoed around me. “Why did you leave?” it whispered.  
I shivered. “I am different,” I said hesitantly. “I am alone.”  
The song softened. The stars shone brighter. The voice curled around me, wrapping me in light and warmth. “Do not be afraid, Enkidu,” it murmured. “You will not always be alone. There is one like you. Follow the sun. Your fate lies with the one in the stone.”  
“Where?” I asked. “When?”  
The voice started to answer, but suddenly it was lost in the babble of voices that sprang out of the darkness. I crouched and covered my ears as the stars turned black and the heavens plummeted into the darkness beneath my feet. A different voice began screaming, harsh, bitter words without meaning that clawed and tore at me. A deep rumble rose to answer it, then the babble began anew, each voice straining to be heard above the others until my head ached with the noise.  
My skull was still throbbing when I opened my eyes. It was late. The sky was paling, streaks of crimson stretching across the grey as the day dawned. All around me the pack was stirring awake. The alpha, the big, rusty male I called in my strange language Ra, was nudging the others awake, nuzzling his mate and barking at the others of the pack. He glanced at me, saw that I was already awake and came over, plumed tail wagging, to thrust a cold nose against my chest and lick my face in greeting. My laugh turned into a sputter as he tried to lick my mouth, and in a moment the dream was forgotten, thrust away to the back of my mind. Rek followed her mate over and nipped my arm affectionately before greeting Ra. The pups, awake now and eager to move, crowded around us. It took me another moment to break free of the mob of wagging tails and sloppy tongues.  
The other wolves were already moving past us, out into the pale light. We had found an old antelope the day before that he been left behind by her herd, and the rare meal had given them now energy as they stretched and yipped at one another, impatient to be off. Rek wove past me, delivering a sharp nip to the pups. With whines and a final few wet greetings, they followed their mother to the entrance of the den. Able to breath without inhaling fur once more, I balanced myself on my four paws and stretched lazily, yawning, then sat down again to perform my usual ritual of combing out my tangled fur with my fingers. A small whine distracted me. To my surprise, Ra had not gone with the rest. He sat there on the sandy floor in front of me, his tail tucked neatly around his legs, watching me inquisitively. I paused and lifted my head, puzzled. All of the wolves had seen me do this often enough that they had ceased to be curious.  
Ra whined again. I made a low, questioning growl deep in my throat, wondering if I smelled strange or still had wolf saliva on my face. Ra blinked at me, apparently deciding that I had finished, and stood and walked closer to look up into my face. His dark, intelligent gaze was steady. I blinked back at him. I had never challenged his dominance over the pack, but then, his ears were perked up and his tail waved gently back and forth. If he was asking me to submit, they would have been pinned to his skull and his tail thrust between his hind legs. His dark eyes looked calmly up into mine, but there was an unmistakable question in them. He looked back at the rest of the pack, still restless to leave, and back at me, tilting his head and uttering a soft whine. This time I understood. This would not be another short hunting trip. The pack was leaving the forest behind for the distant plains. Ra must have sensed my uneasiness. He was asking me if I was coming with them.  
My dream flooded back. “Why are you afraid, Enkidu?” the voice whispered in my mind.  
Ra cocked his head and whined again. I smiled wryly and reached out to scratch behind his ears in the spot he couldn’t reach himself. Usually that made him pant happily and wag his tail, but now he only drew back his lips in a wolf grin, his dark gaze never leaving mine.  
“Oh, Ra,” I said softly, even though I knew he couldn’t understand me. “I am afraid.”  
He whined anxiously. I gave him one last scratch and stretched out onto all fours, tilting my hindquarters since I had no tail. Ra’s ears perked up again. He wagged his tail and turned and trotted off to join the pack, and I followed.  
Do not be afraid, Enkidu. You will not always be alone. There is one like you. Follow the sun. Your fate lies with the one in the stone.  
I remember the words the voice had said, and folded them carefully away in my mind so that I would not forget them. The pack moved restlessly around me. I glanced back at the forest. The den was on the very edge of the trees, sheltered away beneath the eaves of the stone cliffs by the empty creek bed. The plains stretched on into the distance in front of us, the endless low rise and fall of the dead grasses for as far as the eye could see, vanishing into the paling horizon as the brilliant red sun leisurely climbed back into the sky. The wolves around me growled softly, impatient to be off. I could see the ribs sticking out from beneath their shaggy pelts, the hungry twitch of their ears as they listened to the sounds of the forest around them.  
Ra barked once. Rek echoed him, accompanied by the shrill voices of the pups, and the rest of the pack joined in. I added my voice to theirs as we broke into a run. The memory of the dream vanished in harsh pants and the rapid pound of paws against the hard-packed earth as the wolves’ stride lengthened into the ground-eating pace that can last for days without faltering. I launched myself to my hind paws. The ground flew beneath my feet, the wind whipping my fur, and I laughed with the sheer exhilaration of running with the pack. The pups darted around me, panting as they fought to keep up. The boldest one leaped forward to nip at my heels with a giddy yip. I grinned and quickened my pace, and the other members of the pack took up the challenge, yipping as they raced to catch up. Ra barked sharply, and as one we fell back into stride behind him as the forest faded into a dark blur behind us. I felt a momentary pang of regret, then the pack called again, and for a moment, nothing else mattered -the doubts, the dream, even the loneliness. For a moment, I felt as through I belonged.  
But the feeling faded as the day turned to dusk and the pack slowed to rest by a dried-up watering hole.


End file.
